To Save The Princess
by Maple Fay
Summary: Post-season 2 finale. It takes time to heal some wounds, and Matthew wants his healed - but when it turns out that somebody else needs the healing more than him, he's willing to help them, whatever it takes. A dark story, eventually M/M.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: So… I have this bad, bad feeling concerning the direction the Christmas Special might take, considering sir Richard's character and oh-so-many-other-things that might go wrong. And so, I need to get it out of my system, before I suffocate on my own thoughts. (Yes, I do believe it possible.)_

_I would like to use this chance to tell you—it shall not be pretty, at least not for a while: but if you do venture over hear and take some time to read my delirious scribblings, I'd be delighted to get some feedback from you. Thank you in advance!_

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><p>He was asleep for six months. Or so it seemed.<p>

There was a void inside him, a dark an empty place, that consumed him almost entirely, leaving only a small percentage of his mind free to keep his body functional, to get through the days as they passed him by—to pretend that he was still alive.

He was a snail, or a turtle, with a cracked shell. A bird with broken wings. A cat with its whiskers and claws torn out.

It took him half a year to start healing.

When he woke up, _really_ woke up, for the first time since that cold, weary March day, he was surprised to see that the trees were already turning yellow, that his mother had more silver threaded in her hair than he remembered, and that his world had become a cold, empty and hostile place.

His mother confirmed that part of what he felt was true—the big house stood proudly as it used to, but it too resembled an animal now: an abandoned shell of some sea creature rather than a human dwelling. Something unspoken hung in the air between Cousin Cora and her husband, making the rest of the family (and the servants) moody and tense. It might have been the case of Bates' arrest, but not necessarily. There was no reason to organize dinner parties anymore, not after two of the three sisters have left the house, so Isobel rarely got a chance to see Lord and Lady Grantham nowadays.

The fact that his own mental state might have been a factor contributing to the lack of invitations had not been mentioned.

He asked about his younger cousins, his hands closing into fists on their own accord. His mother kept her eyes on her knitting as she answered, her voice flat and even. Sybil was long gone to Dublin, working as a nurse and getting ready to marry that chauffer of hers. Edith stayed at home, drove around, visited some farms, but mainly kept to herself.

Mary was still abroad with her husband, but they were expected to be back soon.

_Mary had a husband now._

He knew that, of course; some part of him had, after all, been alive and conscious enough to attend their wedding three mere months ago. If he thought really hard about it, he remembered congratulating her, shaking her hand, and dancing with her at the reception, all without looking her in the eye, not even once. She was cold, and numb, more like a statue than an actual breathing person, like the Andromeda she'd always been, now encased in white marble.

Or so it seemed.

* * *

><p>He went to the office that day, and really looked at the work he'd done during the months of his inner confinement. It felt good to have something to do; some cases concerned the estate, but most didn't, and the feeling of being detached from that part of his life grew with every hour he spent not thinking about it.<p>

In the evening, he dined with his mother, sipped on some wine and went to bed earlier than usual.

He dreamt of cool skin and toneless voices.

* * *

><p>He didn't dare call it his new life yet, not out loud, but he thought of it as such.<p>

A life of cold resignation, of work that had to be done and duties that had to be addressed when the time came. A life inside a shell.

Something told him it wouldn't last long.

* * *

><p>"Please come," Edith said, finally raising her eyes to meet his. It was a week since he woke up, and the first time he saw her, <em>really<em> saw her, since March. "I'd appreciate a friendly soul at the table."

"Then you should perhaps invite somebody more fitting the company than myself," he remarked dryly, pushing papers around on his desk. She didn't seem eager to pick up the topic.

"Come at eight, if you can," she said instead, standing up and holding out her gloved hand. He squeezed it briefly, glad it wasn't bare skin that he touched. "And give my best to Cousin Isobel. I actually miss having her around to boss me. It gave me some purpose."

"Should I tell her you said that?"

"Oh, no. Sometimes you find that simply missing something and thinking fondly about the time you'd had it feels better than actually having it back—I'm afraid this might just be the case. Until then, Cousin Matthew."

He frowned, wondering if there was a hidden meaning behind her words, but dropped the thought quickly, dismissing it as utterly absurd.

* * *

><p>"Cousin Edith came to see me at the office today. We have been invited to dine at Downton this coming Saturday," he told his mother at dinner. She raised her eyebrows questioningly.<p>

A small bite of meat and a sip of wine preceded his carefully measures answer. "The Carlisles have come back from their tour of the continent."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. Apparently everyone up there is eager to listen to their stories, and let them rub it in on those less fortunate."

"Matthew!"

"I'm sorry, Mother." Another sip of wine. "I may not be fair in my assumption."

"You _may_ not?"

He let it slip, bowing his head slightly in acknowledgement. "I shall try not to say anything too obtrusive while we're there."

"Please see that you do." Isobel pressed her fingertips to a hollow at her temple, and closed her eyes for a moment. "She won't need any additional burdens on her shoulders, especially not from you."

He did not need her to clarify that last remark. Especially since he disagreed, not seeing how anything he did could possibly affect her now.

* * *

><p>After more than a week of numb indifference to the world and its inhabitants, he expected the visit to Downton to bring on some unwanted feelings, which it did.<p>

Only the feelings he actually felt weren't the ones he'd anticipated.

First of all, he had no idea his mother could still astonish him to the point of rendering him speechless.

Isobel walked into the room where everybody had already gathered, took one look at the Carlisles—sir Richard standing proudly right next to his wife, his left hand placed possessively at the small of her back—and crossed the distance between them and the door, a blinding smile on her face.

"Mary, dear, you look splendid!" she exclaimed, taking Mary's hand in hers and leaning in for a fleeting kiss.

The lie was so apparent, so shameless, that the sheer force of it stopped Matthew dead in his tracks.

Mary's face was white as a sheet, her body much thinner than he remembered; her lips, pressed into a tight line, seemed drained of all colour. Although the evening was a relatively warm one, she had a thick shawl draped over her upper arms and shoulders. Her outfit made Matthew think somebody in sir Richard's family must have died, and she was in mourning (although her husband was not), for she wore all black: the dress, simpler and much less revealing than anything she might have worn before her marriage; the long, silk gloves; the choker wound tightly around her neck adorned with black pearls.

"Cousin Isobel," she said in response to the warm greeting, trying to make her voice sound cheerful and light. It came out raspy and broken, and Matthew felt a chill run down his back.

His mother now touched Mary's elbow, pulled her into a half embrace. Over her shoulder, Matthew saw Mary's face contort briefly into an image of agonizing pain—he blinked at the sight, and it was gone, so fast he thought he'd imagined it, and quickly dismissed all possible implications.

They went through to the dining room and sat, him across from Mary, who had taken Sybil's old place closer to the foot of the table, her husband further up, next to his father-in-law. Edith was seated to Mary's left, as if they were both still unmarried; to her right stood an empty chair upon which Sybil would probably sit if she was there.

The conversation was quickly dominated by sir Richard, conveying with great flourish the sights they'd seen and the events they'd taken part in while cruising Europe. Mary was eerily quiet, offering short, clipped answers to Edith's occasional questions, barely touching her food and sitting stiffly in her chair. Matthew decided she must have grown even colder and prouder since she married, and did his best to ignore his eldest cousin.

It worked rather well—until the second course, when some remark of sir Richard's, spoken in a louder and more aggressive a tone than the one adopted by the whole party, caused Mary to flinch and drop her knife.

She made an attempt to bend over and retrieve it, and gave out a whimper that caused Matthew's blood to freeze.

He was up from his chair and on his knees next to the table before he even realized he'd moved. Waving away Carson, who was already rushing to the rescue, he picked up the offending piece of cutlery, and looked up at Mary to hand it back to her.

Her right hand sneaked down under the tablecloth, and pulled at the dress, causing the hem to go up an inch or two. Matthew caught a brief glance of her ankle, encased in a light stocking.

What he saw was more than enough to heat his blood back up.

Mary thanked him with a delicate nod, and turned to accept a new knife from Carson, thus angling her neck to the left, away from Matthew. As she did that, his eyes fell on a piece of skin exposed by a small movement of the elaborate choker, and he finally put all the pieces of the puzzle together.

He stood back up, and gave the dirty knife to the butler. No more than two heartbeats have passed since it was dropped, and the world was suddenly a completely different place.

"You should be more careful, Cousin Mary," he remarked in a light tone, going back to sit in his chair. Sir Richard, who didn't make any attempt to rush to his wife's rescue, chuckled humourlessly and took a large gulp of his wine.

"That she should. She can be really clumsy sometimes, isn't that right, dear?"

"Of course," Mary answered sweetly, like a gentle wife would, giving her family a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Matthew looked around the table over the rim of his glass. Aside from questioning glances from Edith and his mother, and disapproving ones from Cousin Cora and Cousin Violet, no one seemed to have paid the occurrence much attention.

Which meant, Matthew realized in a moment of terrifying clarity, that he was the only person in this room other than the Carlisles aware of the fact that, from what he'd observed while kneeling on the floor at Mary's feet, his cousin's body was practically covered with bruises.

The bruises which weren't, most likely, the result of Mary's clumsiness.

Matthew looked at her again, really looked—and for the first time since they danced to a music from a show that flopped, he felt something else for her than grief-fuelled hatred.

There was a man in this room who had married her, and bedded her, and still chose to ignore her whimpers of pain—because he was well aware that whatever physical discomfort she felt was the result of his own actions.

And Mary, the woman Matthew had always known as strong, brave, proud and daring, was too afraid of him to ask anyone for help, aside from hoping that Matthew would catch on to what was going on by simply looking at her, and seeing her for who she has become.

There it was again, he thought bitterly, the whole act: the princess, the sea monster, and the hero.

He had no idea what happened, what caused Mary to change, in a span of a few short months, to a completely different person, to throw all her dignity away. There was but one thing clear to him: if he really saw what he did, he had to take a stand and play his part in this drama: to whatever end.

**TBC…**


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you very much for all your wonderful reviews! I'm delighted to hear that you liked the first chapter—and so, I'm bringing you another one, slightly less dramatic (or is it…?). Hope that it answers at least some of your questions._

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><p>As the ladies retired to the drawing room, Matthew was left with Robert and sir Richard, focusing solely on one task: to play his part of a slightly catatonic cousin, indifferent to the world and its matters, well enough to convince both men that he'd seen absolutely nothing of importance while attending to their respective daughter and wife.<p>

His pulse was quickened, his lips dry, his skin hot and tingling; yet he managed, with utmost self-control, to act cold and withdrawn as the other two discussed business and politics right next to him. As they got lost in the conversation, Matthew took his time to carefully observe sir Richard and his manners. There was nothing 'off' about his demeanour; to an outsider he would seem a perfectly normal person, perhaps a bit too brusque and full of himself to be considered a _real_ gentleman, but a gentleman nonetheless. He talked about his newspapers and real estate investments with an air of arrogance and self-importance that unnerved Matthew and made him bite at the inside of his cheek.

He twirled the brandy glass between his fingers, replaying the brief scene with Mary in his mind. She was tense, in pain, and yet trying desperately to keep up appearances and turn her family's attention away from herself. Clearly she wished to avoid their making a fuss about her in front of her husband.

Was she afraid it would backfire on her? Of what he might do to her if it did?

When did it all start?, he wondered. Surely not _before_ she married Carlisle, she would never go through with the wedding if it had… would she? And even if they were already married when the things took a turn to the worse, why hadn't Mary told anyone about it? Was she that much scared of what would happen if she looked for help, or left her husband?

Wait.

Why wouldn't she just _leave_ him in the first place?

Matthew felt a cold chill run down his back, and covered the shiver up with a shrug. He shot sir Richard another sideways glance: the man seemed perfectly calm and composed, caught up in the story of… well, _himself_, and Robert simply sat there, listening politely and nodding in all the right places. Though obviously not too interested, he still tolerated the man, since he was in son-in-law. He didn't suspect _anything_ untoward.

For a moment, Matthew doubted in himself. How long has it been since the last time he'd seen Mary, not to mention—been close to her? Perhaps it was all just a play of light and his own imagination, fuelled by anger and bitterness. Perhaps Mary wasn't hurt at all—for if she were, surely somebody else would have noticed it, too? They were her _family_, for God's sake!...

"Shall we join the ladies?" Robert's hand came to rest on his shoulder, startling him a little.

"Of course," he answered hastily, standing up and straightening out his jacket. He caught sir Richard's eye—the man regarded him coldly, disrespect and contempt clearly visible in his face to anyone who'd care to look for it. Matthew gave him as much dignified a look as he could muster, and followed Robert into the drawing room.

The 'play of light' theory no longer seemed that believable.

* * *

><p>When they entered the room, Mary did not look up. She was sitting on an ottoman between Edith and Isobel, her back straight, a half-full glass of sherry in her hand. Cora bade sir Richard come closer.<p>

"Mary has been telling us about Italy," she said with a brilliant smile. Carlisle raised one eyebrow, looking over to his wife with a lopsided grin.

"Really? What did she say, pray tell?"

Matthew kept his eyes on Mary as Cora spoke, noticing the way her fingers tightened around the glass. "Oh, only how much she'd enjoyed Florence, especially the Uffizi. I believe you stayed there a full week?"

"Indeed," sir Richard nodded, still keeping his eyes on Mary. "We have had such a wonderful time there, haven't we, dear?"

"Yes," Mary breezed and sipped on her sherry, not offering any further comments. Cora turned back to Richard, asking about arts and architecture, the explanation on which he readily offered, dazzling the ladies with skilfully tailored stories of people and places, food and drinks, and everything else he and his wife experienced during their European tour.

The more Matthew heard, the stronger was his conviction that Mary had not been an active participant in that journey, but rather yet another trinket her husband liked to surround himself with. Sir Richard crooned happily of all the business meetings he'd had during the trip, occasionally turning to Mary to confirm a date or place, but never to ask her opinion regarding this or that detail. It was as if her only purpose was to agree with whatever sir Richard said, make him shine even brighter.

Matthew hated that idea.

And judging from the way the family listened to sir Richard's musing, all heads turned dutifully in his direction, he was the only one.

Were they really that blind, or simply purposefully short-sighted?, he wondered, looking back at Mary, who hasn't changed her position since they entered the room. All the signs were there to see: her obvious discomfort, her uncharacteristical quietness, the way she avoided eye contact… Even if Mary was to change her behaviour after she married, this was _not_ what one would expect to see.

Sir Richard was currently describing the wonders of Vatican, or some other miraculous place—but his tirade was cut short by an attack of terrible cough. The man should know where to stop, Matthew thought with grim satisfaction. He tried to come up with some sort of a casual remark, to stir the conversation away from Carlisle—but his mother beat him to it.

"What did _you_ think of the Vatican, Mary?" she asked in a soft voice, turning to face his cousin. Matthew wondered whether this served as means to find out more about the place, or whether he'd been wrong, and his mother saw what he'd seen… but he would have to think about it later; now he needed to hear Mary's answer, or, to be more exact: the _way_ in which she gave it.

"Actually, I found it quite… overwhelming," was all she said, in so small a voice Matthew had to strain to hear it.

That was it—the final drop that spilt the jar of questions, the straw that broke his doubting back.

_This __was __not __her_.

This person, this woman sitting stiffly with her back overly straight, as if she was a first-time visitor to an unknown place, her voice a broken whisper, her eyes fixed on the floor, had absolutely nothing in common with the Lady Mary Crawley he remembered.

It was as if she were a Ming Dynasty vase of precious porcelain, shattered into pieces and glued back together by an unskilled craftsman, regaining the shape but losing her soul in the process.

Sir Richard clearly didn't care.

"That's my Mary," he said, laughing, at walked over to place a patronizing hand on his wife's shoulder. "She may seem to be a strong and opinionated lady, but she still has a lot to learn about the ways of the world. Isn't that right, darling?"

He gave her shoulder a squeeze that made her eyes water a little. Feigning a smile, she looked up at him and gave a small nod, while her parents exchanged amused glances, clearly thinking that marriage really must have changed Mary, since in managed to turn her into a sweet, delicate woman they had always wanted her to become.

Matthew felt a great urge to slap someone, should this farce continue.

In the end, it was Mary who stopped him from turning sir Richard's nose into a bloody pulp. "I think I shall go upstairs," she said, looking up at her husband for approval.

"Of course," he answered graciously. "You shall have more than enough time to catch up with your family while you're here."

_Mary was going to stay at Downton?_

Cousin Cora turned to sir Richard. "Would you not reconsider? It would do you good to rest after your journey."

"The business won't wait," sir Richard replied with a sour smile. "I need to go back to London and prepare everything before the ball."

"What ball?" Edith chimed in, suddenly appearing very alert.

"The Annual Press Ball. I have the privilege of hosting it this year. Most of the work will be done by somebody else, of course, but I think it wouldn't be wise to leave everything unattended. I'd rather have Mary rest here, while my subordinates prepare everything for her debut in my social circle…"

_At __least __it __would__ give __her __bruises __time__ to __fade,_ Matthew thought grimly, his eyes averted not to betray the anger boiling inside him. A black dress and a shawl might have worked at Downton, but they wouldn't fool anyone in London.

Sir Richard was still talking, painting the picture of Press Balls and their grandeur. "Of course, this year is special," he smiled proudly, hooking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. "Not only will I have my beautiful Mary by my side, but also her whole family—for you shall come, surely?"

The question was directed to Cora and Robert, but it was Isobel who answered. "We would be delighted to! Wouldn't we, Matthew?"

He raised his head, looking sir Richard in the eye, and his heart jumped happily at the sight of pure fury he found there. "Delighted indeed," he said, making sure that he voice sounded as neutral and calm as possible. "Thank you for including us."

He knew very well Carlisle had no way of excluding them from the invitation, not now when it had been spoken, heard and answered so openly. The man had just shot himself in the foot, and Matthew was delighted to see him do so.

"You're welcome," the unlucky shooter replied, pressing his lips into a line. "It shall take place on the twenty-seventh of September. Be sure to clear your schedule."

"We shall do our best. Matthew needs to go to Manchester next month, but I am sure this could be rescheduled," Isobel kept talking, seemingly unaware of sir Richard's discomfort. "Now, I suppose we should get going—we wouldn't like to tire Mary out any further. Sir Richard, a pleasure."

"Carson, have Rogers bring the car around," Robert nodded to the butler, who promptly settled to fulfil his task. "I hope we shall be seeing more on you, now that you've recovered," he added, turning to Matthew. Everybody else looked at him, too: some with genuine interest (Cora, Violet and Edith), some with suspicion (sir Richard, of course); his mother's eyes held a gentle warning, one that he understood immediately.

Mary did not raise her head.

"Actually, there are quite a few loose ends I need to tie up, back in Manchester," he answered, trying to make this statement sound as tedious and boring as possible. "I might have to stay there for a while."

"Of course," Robert nodded sympathetically. "At any rate, we shall go to London together."

"That," Matthew smiled, giving sir Richard one last look, "we shall."

* * *

><p>"Do remember to come and see me tomorrow, Carson," he heard his mother say right before the butler closed the door behind them. Carson paused mid-motion, regarded Mrs. Crawley's expression with great intent, and nodded curtly.<p>

"Certainly, ma'am. I shall be at the Crawley House before luncheon."

"Good," Isobel breezed happily. "Have a good night."

"What was that all about?" he asked her as soon as they reached home and dismissed Molesley for the night. His mother turned to him, her face drawn and tired, and put her fingers to her temples, as if fighting off a migraine attack.

"Tell me, Matthew… is there something wrong with the estate?"

He blinked. "Wrong? In what sense?"

"A financial one, of course."

He thought of the months he'd spent in a stupor, then of the documents he hastily reviewed during that last week. "I do not believe so, no."

"Then it must have something to do with the family," she mused, obviously thinking aloud, as she started pacing the room, hands still clasped around her forehead. "It has to be one of the two, and since you say the money is not the problem—"

"Mother, please, what _are_ you talking about?" he interrupted her, though deep inside his heart he already knew the answer—and loved her even more for thinking the same thing he did.

"The reason why Mary lets this… this poor excuse of a man treat her like that, obviously!" she exclaimed, righteous fury burning in her eyes. "You saw it too, didn't you?"

He simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak right now. She went on:

"Poor girl could hardly move a muscle! She couldn't have simply surrendered herself to him without a fight, not the Mary you and I knew—so there's got to be something else at the works. He has her in his grasp, and she cannot break free. And her family, oh!, they all seemed so… _clueless_! Matthew," she turned to him, touching the sleeve of his jacket, her eyes shining with tears of compassion threatening to spill over at any moment, "something has to be done about this!"

He took her hand, and squeezed it reassuringly, the way he wanted—needed—to touch Mary's hand throughout the whole evening. "You're absolutely right, mother. I'll make sure of that. I promise you."

He had no idea what _could_ be done—but he was now determined to do anything and everything he could to help Mary get out of whatever it was that she'd found herself trapped in. He just hoped he was enough of a hero to fight sir Richard. The man made quite a convincing monster, and the times of beheadings were unfortunately far behind them.

There had to be another way. And if there was—he would find it.

**TBC…**


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Oh, my dears, you have no idea how wonderful your reviews make me feel! Great thanks to everyone who took their time to share their thoughts with me, and to those of you who added this story to alerts/favourites. Having read so many beautiful pieces about my favourite DA couple, I'm thrilled to hear that you enjoy my humble addition to this great archive of M/M stories._

_I'm sorry to have kept you waiting for this chapter a bit longer than usual, but it was the Polish Independence Day (and thus a bank holiday) on Friday, so I took the liberty to sleep in and spend a part of the weekend writing in my own language for a change. ;)_

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><p>Sir Richard did not come to the Sunday service—Matthew assumed he'd taken the morning train to London. He let himself observe Mary from afar: the way she held herself, with her shoulders almost imperceptibly sloped, her head hung down, a delicate veil falling down from an elaborate hat obscuring her features. Like the day before, she wore all black, and seemed oblivious of the suspicious stares cast in her direction by the villagers.<p>

He didn't get the chance to talk to her after the service. Perhaps it was for the better: he still couldn't think of any right words to say to her.

They were the last ones to leave the church—his mother wanted a word with the vicar—so when they arrived home Carson was already waiting for them in the parlour, a small file in his hands. He stood up as they entered, bowing gently, and waited until they were both seated before sitting down again.

"I suppose you know why I wished to see you," Isobel said slowly, carefully observing the man's face. Carson nodded, but did not answer her directly.

"It's about Lady Mary," Matthew chimed in, eager to find some explanation. "Carson, you've always been very fond of her…"

"Mr. Crawley, if I may…" the older man cut in, respectfully. "The situation is an extremely delicate one, and I'm afraid I cannot see how I might be of help to you…"

"But you did bring us something, didn't you?" Isobel asked, pointing at the file. Carson nodded, and, after a moment of hesitation, handed it over to Matthew.

"Perhaps I should explain," he said, straightening his back. "Shortly before Lady Mary's weeding, two men were spotted in the village, asking questions about the family and the estate. The seemed especially interested in any new additions to the household, as well as anyone who'd recently left it, and their reasons for doing so.

"Then, a couple of weeks after their visit and less than a week before the ceremony, an article on Downton had been printed in a paper which I personally do not purchase—I had been informed about it by Mr. Molesley, the senior, who sadly has an inclination for these kinds of things. You shall find it in the file."

Matthew hastily untied the strings binding the covers, and took out a clipping from a rag he'd heard about, but never actually read—_The__ Yorkshire __Informant_; _IS__ THE__ BARON __MARRYING__ THE __RIGHT __PRINCESS?_, said the title in thick, black letters. He began to read aloud, his eyes widening as he did:

"_We'd be lying if we called sir Richard Carlisle our 'most venerable colleague'; nevertheless, the news of his impending marriage to a daughter of a seemingly respectable member of the old aristocracy had caused us to worry about his mental capabilities._

"_It has been pointed out to us that sir Richard's bride-to-be and her family have been a subject of various rumours circulating in the London society long before the War; as it turns out, the dramatic occurrences of the recent dark times had done nothing to temper said family's need for publicity, yet their taste in it seems quite astonishing even to the most tolerant of our reporters._

"_We__ encourage __our __readers __to __follow__ the __future __editions __of _The Informant_, __in __which __we __plan __to __shed __some__ light__ over __the __particularly__ troubling __talks __of __impropriety __between__ the __members__ of __said __family __and __their __household __staff__…"_

"I think we've heard enough," Isobel said in a shaky voice, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips. "Tell me, Carson… has there ever been a follow-up of these… these _hideous_ allegations?"

"As a matter of fact, no," the butler shook his head, his face showing no signs of relief. "However, there were other articles which I believe to have been connected to the case. The clippings are all in there, Mr. Crawley."

Matthew leafed through the papers and frowned. "I'm sorry, Carson, but I cannot see how is it relevant? It says here that _The __Informant_'s publishers have bought a couple of buildings in London, and employed a famous writer to work for them—but there are no mentions of Downton or the family whatsoever."

"Not directly," Carson pointed out gently. "I've taken it upon myself to check each new issue of the paper, in case there were some further attacks made on the family: and I only took notice of these announcements because sir Richard had, on several occasions, told Lord Grantham of his intention to buy those particular buildings, and draw up an exclusive contract with that writer." He hesitated for a moment. "No further information on the residents of Downton have been made public after the announcements were posted."

Isobel furrowed her brow. "Are you suggesting that sir Richard had to forego his business plans in order to keep the editors from revealing some embarrassing details regarding Mary's family?"

"That would be my conclusion, ma'am."

"This is ridiculous!" Matthew stood up and began pacing the room, combing his fingers through his hair almost unconsciously. "What could have there been to reveal? Sybil's plans to marry Branson? I do admit she's taken us all by surprise, but these kinds of things have been happening all over Britain since the War ended…"

"I'm afraid this might have been about something else entirely, sir." Carson's voice sounded broken and flat. Matthew stopped mid-step and turned to regard the older man: he was clearly distressed, grieving over the hard choice he was about to make. His loyalty to Robert and the family made it difficult for him to share some significant information with them—but on the other hand, there was Mary, whom he'd grown to love since she was a little girl, and who was now suffering greatly… Matthew did appreciate Carson's dilemma, and yet—had it been his choice to make, he would gladly sacrifice the rest of the family to keep Mary safe from harm…

The realization was so sudden it almost struck him down.

This was about so much more than a result of compassion felt for another human being, or his lack of respect for sir Richard as a person, or an attachment and sympathy for a relative.

One simply did not decide it was alright to hurt other people's feelings (or perhaps even destroy their lives) in order to save one's cousin, to whom one hadn't even talked for months.

Yet one _did_ start seeing red and thinking murderous thoughts when the love of one's life was suffering because of something one did not understand.

Suddenly it all made sense—the despair he'd been feeling since the day he told her they couldn't possibly be together; the fury and anger that wouldn't leave him since the previous evening; the need to hold and comfort her, to make sure she was safe…

He loved her, still. It was an simple as that.

He needed time to think about it, to process it and find the correct way to address his feelings, to decide what to tell Mary… oh _God_, Mary!—but Carson has obviously made up his mind, and spoke in a clear and distinct voice, looking him straight in the eye:

"I cannot be sure whether it was true, or to what extent: but I do believe the improprieties suggested by those so-called journalists concerned his lordship, not Lady Sybil."

Matthew did not expect that.

Apparently, neither did his mother. "Cousin Robert? Surely, Carson, you must be mistaken…"

"I would like to believe I am, ma'am—yet even I had once, completely unwillingly, witnessed a conversation between his lordship and… one of the maids, which has left me wondering about the exact nature of their relationship."

It must have cost Carson a great deal to let go of this burden: he looked as if he'd been running uphill, his cheeks reddened, beads of sweat on his forehead—for a moment, Matthew felt genuinely sorry for him.

Then the feeling changed into gratitude, coupled with the need to find out the truth—for Mary, and for this man who loved her deeply enough to throw away every principle he'd ever had and betray the secrets of his employer.

He began to pace again, trying to sort the whole story out. "Thank you for telling us this, Carson," he said, surprising himself with the ability to close off the torrential flow of emotions and speak clearly, with calm composure. "If that was to be the case, I believe sir Richard must have used his connections in order to ensure the information would never see daylight. It probably meant giving up some chances for good investments—and as we all know, he is not the kind of man who would take such a turn of events on lightly."

"Do you believe he blames Mary for his loss?" Isobel gasped with shock. "That was he did, or does, to her is his way of making her pay for it?"

"I have no reason to presume otherwise, Mother, or to give the man any credit of faith."

"Good Lord," she whispered and stood up like he did, clearly buzzing from a burst of nervous energy like he did. "What could we do about it?"

This was a relatively simple question, and Matthew believed he knew the way to answer it. "We need to verify these 'revelations' ourselves," he said, assuming the cool composure of a lawyer faced with a legal problem, not a man in love dying to make someone pay for all the pain Mary had to bear. "Carson," he turned to the butler, who sat heavily in his chair, looking completely defeated and worn out, "would you give me the name of the maid in question? I can solemnly swear to you I shall approach neither her nor Lord Grantham about this—but I do need a place to start, if I am to solve this matter."

Carson looked up, a faint light of hope in his eyes. "It was Jane, Mr. Crawley. Jane Moorsum."

"The war widow?" Isobel asked in wonderment. Carson nodded gravely. "Hadn't she quit the job in the spring?"

"She had, ma'am; handed in the notice herself, shortly after Lady Grantham recovered from the flu."

"Oh."

_An__ '__oh__'__, __indeed._ "I shall try to retrace any connection Jane and Cousin Robert might have had outside of the household—if there had been any connection at all," Matthew said thoughtfully, leaning against the mantelpiece as the adrenaline rush he'd felt ebbed and gave way to physical and mental exhaustion. He needed time, and peace, but his needs would have to wait until he was sure Mary was safe. "I was planning to go away on business anyway, perhaps the two could be combined. I'll talk to Mary when I get back and have some reliable information. Frankly, I don't think a blackmail and a man's wounded pride could be the _whole_ answer to this riddle, but it seems as good a place as any to begin. We should address this matter before she has to go back to London—regardless of the outcome of my investigation."

His mother nodded, glad to have a timeline to keep to. "I'll have her over for tea this week. Maybe she'd open up a little."

Matthew chuckled humourlessly. "It's Mary we're talking about, Mother. It's going to take a little more than a cup of tea to get the truth out of her. But please do try to keep her busy: perhaps it would help her to cope."

Carson stood up, only just noticing he'd been sitting in a presence of a woman: it was clear the whole situation has left him deeply shaken. "Is there anything I could do to help, Mr. Crawley?" he asked, the wrinkles around his tired eyes standing out in the sharp light of a fall afternoon. Matthew smiled sadly, thinking of devotion, love, and duty.

"_Are you a creature of duty?"_

"_Not entirely."_

Was Mary one?...

"Make sure she rests," he said in a soft voice. "Try to get her to smile if you can."

"I'll do my best, sir."

"I'm sure of it. Thank you for your time, Carson."

When the old butler left, Isobel gave her son a weak smile and came closer, gently cupping his cheek.

"You're going to help her," she said simply. "You're going to save her, and everything will be as it should be."

Matthew shook his head, thinking of first things in life—kisses, weddings, travels, houses and, surprisingly, breakfast tables—and covered his mother's hand with his.

"I only wish it could be the way it _should__ have __been_, Mother."

**TBC…**

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><p><em>AN: So, here it is—and I'm happy to say that the next chapter, which is turning out to be quite long and packed with emotions, is almost done. Please let me know what you thought!_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Hello. Me again. This time I would like to share one funny fact with you: this chapter was written BACKWARDS, from the last bit to the first. Please enjoy._

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><p>The weather took a turn to the worse when he'd been away. He arrived at Crawley House shortly after midnight on a Friday night, almost two weeks since their sit-in with Carson, twelve days after he'd promised to find out everything he could about the not-at-all subtle hints smeared on <em>The <em>_Informant_ pages, and a day earlier than he'd originally planned.

He was back, but not any wiser.

He talked to the family bankers, and found a proof of Robert having paid for little Freddie Moorsum's education. He then checked the records to see whether there was a possibility, however remote, that Robert knew the boy's mother before, that he could have been believed to be his father. There wasn't any, and it made his heart lighter to know that.

And yet, he still had no idea why Mary tolerated being abused by the man undeserving the title of her husband, why she believed she had to protect her family from that seemingly harmless gossip getting out to the world. Allegations like that were being thrown around among the upper class since before the War, and it usually didn't take much to prove them false.

There was clearly more to it: and Matthew couldn't quite put his finger on it.

He entered the house to find everyone asleep: quite understandable, since he hadn't informed anyone of his arrival a day early. Shaking off the raindrops from his hat and coat, he walked into the parlour to find the fire still burning; he added two fresh logs to the fireplace, took off his soaked jacket and shoes and sat heavily down in one of the chairs in front of the fire, leaning his head back and closing his eyes with a sigh, hoping to warm up a little before going upstairs to a bed in which there was no warm water bottle awaiting him.

He heard the doors creak, and spoke quietly, not opening his eyes: "I'm sorry, Mother. I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't wake me."

He jumped to his feet, blinking rapidly, trying to clear his head as he took in the figure standing in the doorway: his cousin Mary, wearing one of his mother's nightgowns and a heavy purple shawl, her hair unbraided and falling over her shoulder like a river of chocolate silk, her lips parted in awe and embarrassment.

"Mary," he breathed, running a hand through his hair in a futile effort to comb it down.

"I thought I heard your mother," she explained, hesitating on the doorstep. "I wanted to ask her for some Aspirin."

"I believe there's some in the chest of drawers," he said quickly, crossing the room barefoot to rummage through the top drawer of the furniture standing next to the door. Mary looked behind her, bit her lip, and finally stepped fully into the parlour, closing the doors behind her with a soft click.

"Here it is," Matthew same up with a small glass bottle, containing four white tablets. "Take this—there's water, too, if you wish," he gestured towards a half-full jug standing on the table.

"Thank you, yes," she nodded thankfully; he poured some into a thick-cut glass and handed it to her, their fingers brushing in the process: her hand was ice-cold, and they both shivered at the touch.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Matthew asked after she washed down the pills and returned the glass to him. "Not that I mind seeing you…"

Mary smiled weakly, pulling the shawl tighter around herself. "Cousin Isobel invited me for tea—I walked over from Downton, and got caught in the rain. She wouldn't let me leave until she was sure I haven't caught pneumonia."

Her face was cold and impassive, but her could see her struggle to keep her feelings at bay, and it made him absurdly angry. Why wouldn't she simply admit that she wanted to get out of the house, and away from her family, if only for short while? And even if she _did_ want solitude, she shouldn't have gambled on her health, not so soon after an outbreak of the flu in her own house! Matthew shook his head disapprovingly.

"Why did you walk here in the first place? If the weather here was anything like the one in Manchester, it must have been threatening to release a real downpour for the whole day!"

Mary blinked nervously, clearly not having anticipated the question.

"I—needed some exercise."

"Really?" He came over to her, close enough to touch, to smell the aroma of a freshly pressed nightgown, his mother's soap, and something that was so primarily and utterly _hers_ that it made him shiver with a feeling that had nothing to do with the night-time chill. "Didn't you hope that you'd be forced to stay away from your parents' house, even if it was only for tonight? To be able to stop pretending, only for one evening? To openly speak of your feelings? Mary," he took her hand, again noticing with awe how cold and fragile her fingers were, "is there anything I could help you with? Anything you'd like to talk to me about?"

"You cannot possibly help me," she whispered, slowly removing her hand from his grip.

He looked at her from a smaller distance, eyes roaming over porcelain-like skin of her neck and noticing with a shudder that a shade of a bruise was still there, still visible although it'd faded considerably since the time he'd first seen it. He wondered idly whether she walked around her parents' house wearing a scarf, complaining from a sore throat, or claiming it to be the newest fashion trend in Italy or wherever. She blinked, and her eyes glistened with tears.

_A bird with a broken wing. A fawn mourning her young._

"Mary," he said gently, taking a step back as if she was a wild animal he had to approach painstakingly slowly. "I believe I _can_."

She laughed a little, a bitter, icy sound that sent a chill down his back. "Nobody can help me, Matthew. I don't know what you _think_ you know, but—"

"Carson told me," he interjected. "About the rumours concerning your father and the former maid."

Her head whipped up, her eyes attentive, searching his face. "Why would he do such a thing?"

"I asked him. _We_ asked him, mother and I. You… you weren't yourself when you came back to Downton with your husband." He noticed her flinch a little at the word. "I had to know what happened to you. I was worried."

"So you _spied_ on me?"

"I did not spy, Mary. I tried to understand."

She shrugged, turning her eyes away and watching the fire. "Well? Did you?"

"To be honest? No, I didn't." He paused and licked his lips. "I couldn't possibly fathom how such stupid, baseless fabrications of some journalist's sick imagination could have possibly made you surrender to a man like sir Richard Carlisle."

She flinched visibly, biting her lip. He thought he could see a quiver of her chin, the marble mask slowly slipping off her face.

"If you thought it was only about _that_…"

"Then _what_ was it about, Mary?" he snapped, unable to control his emotions any longer.

"Why do you need to know? Why can't you just… let it go?" she pleaded, her eyes wide, her hands slipping and releasing the shawl which fell soundlessly to the floor. None of them made a move to collect it.

"Because I _care_ about you! And I cannot bear to see you suffer!"

He didn't care if he would alarm the servants, or wake his mother up. He need answers, and answers he would get.

Mary seemed to understand his resolve, for she bowed her head and sighed deeply, clenching her hands into fists. "If you really think you must know—I shall tell you." She looked tired now, exhausted beyond measure, and her voice resonated with sad surrender. "But I do not believe you shall still want to 'help me' after you've heard this."

"Try me," he asked gently, stepping closer to her. She shook her head when he tried to take her hand, and looked him in the eye with grave sadness.

"What these awful people wanted to write about Papa was hideous, but it wasn't the whole of our problems. There were… other rumours. About me."

"Rumours?" he frowned. "What kind of rumours?"

Mary took a few steps away from him, and sunk down heavily into an armchair by the fire, the soft glow enveloping her, the flickering of the flames reflected in her eyes.

"The kind that questioned my virtue. _That_ kind."

The world shattered at his feet, and for a moment he felt nothing but an unbearable sadness, and cold pain clutching at his heart. He looked at her, and saw a tear, golden in the firelight, running down silently across her pale cheek.

"Was there any truth in them?"

He was surprised to hear his own voice, a calm before the storm, a darker, huskier edge rising up as he spoke. Mary gasped at the sound, but didn't look up, her hands moving restlessly, picking at the unfamiliar nightgown.

"There was only the truth, Matthew."

He couldn't find the right words, so she did it for him, answering questions he couldn't make himself ask. "It was all terribly stupid, and perhaps I was the only one to blame… And yes, Richard knew about those rumours. He even helped me tone them down once, made sure they wouldn't be made public knowledge. But it _was_ out there, and it could be found if one looked for it. So if Richard didn't stop those people, they would have kept digging, and they would've found out: sooner or later, but they would. Then they'd publish all these stories about Papa, saying they were true even though they weren't; and if we protested, they'd bring this other issue up, and now they _would _have a way to prove it. Everybody would have thought we've lied, and that Papa was actually…"

She spoke very fast, as if it was something she'd thought about constantly, which Matthew supposed she must have—locked up inside a tower of pain, and regret, and constant fear of being exposed and accused of immorality, even though it was the last thing one could accuse her of.

"Something had to be done," her voice, cold and raspy, cut into his thoughts, bringing him back to Earth, to this small room which he now shared with the woman he loved, witnessing her pain and not being able to do anything about it—not yet. "Richard's a businessman, he understands the game, knows the odds. He let those buildings go, and that Mr. Winchester, and it stopped _The __Informant_ for a while: but it was too late to do anything about the wedding. God knows he didn't want to go through with it after everything that'd happened—but if he _didn__'__t_ marry me, it would be as if he told them himself that yes, they were right, and everything they thought they knew was true… Which would make them dig the story up again, and eventually prove that he was about to take a bride who was not only a fallen woman, but a daughter of a liar and a cheat as well." Her lips quivered, and she wrung her hands desperately. "Everything would be ruined. I couldn't let that happen."

"So you married him because it was a good business move?"

"Don't be cynical, it doesn't suit you," she spat, but there wasn't any venom in her voice, only exhaustion and quiet desperation. "I did it for Papa, and Mamma, and my sisters—only for them. All across the country the aristocratic families are falling like house of cards. It has not happened at Downton, not yet—but only because the people here still respect my father, and believe him to be a good man, an honest man—but don't you see how it would change had they caught a sniff of all these scandalous rumours? And what if I did break off the engagement, and Richard decided to publish the stories himself? Oh, it would spike up the newspaper sales; he'd make so much money out of me…! But Edith, and Sybil, my parents and Granny—they'd be ruined, all because of me! Matthew… I just couldn't let it happen!"

He felt small and powerless confronted with her selfless devotion to her family—the same family that wouldn't noticed something was wrong with her when she came back from her honeymoon bruised and battered—which in turn made him angry. "So you decided to become the sacrificial lamb. How very honourable of you."

She looked at him, surprised to hear the bite in his voice. "What else was there left for me to do?" she asked rhetorically, wringing her hands. "I'm disgraced either way. I might as well save the others shame and abomination. Richard would tell me many times that it was all my fault, and no one else's—and I believe he was right."

Fury rose up in his chest, blinding him, crushing down upon all rational thought left in his head, making him forget about propriety and sanity as he spoke again:

"And therefore you became the perfect loving wife, and let your husband beat you."

She gasped, her hand instinctively flying up to touch the fading bruise on her neck. "He does not _beat __me_. He cannot… he has to… I'm not sure I can talk about it with you."

"Try me," he said again, hissing through gritted teeth. He felt pretty sure he could guess what she was meaning to tell him, and the very thought made him see red.

Mary's face was aflame, and the heat from the fireplace had little to do with it. "I suppose I shouldn't blame him; he never loved me in the first place, and not that he's stuck in a marriage with a woman like me, so…"

"Mary," he interrupted her gently, raising one hand, "are you trying to tell me that he does that to you when… when you're… _intimate __together_?"

She met his eye for a fracture of a second, and buried her face in her hands with a sob that nearly broke his heart; he slid into the other armchair and sat completely still, barely daring to breathe, trying to process this new information—but it simply couldn't register in his mind.

"Mary, how could ever let him do that to you?" he finally gasped with awe. "It's as if I don't even know you anymore! Where is that Mary Crawley who'd fight for her entail? Who'd never let any man dominate her? What happened to that girl? Mary…?"

"She's been dead for quite a while," she whispered from behind her hands. "Matthew, I'm asking you again: how could I let him destroy everything our family has built? What Mamma and Papa worked for so hard? How I could deprive Edith and Sybil of a chance for happy life?" She swallowed hard, one hand rising to wipe some sweat off her brow, a gesture Matthew found both endearing and alluring. "You may not think highly of me—I'm not sure anyone does—but I am not as cold and unfeeling as everybody believes me to be. I made one mistake, but it was enough to condemn me, and I know it. I simply had nothing left to fight for, not for myself, anyway." She looked up at him for a fracture of a second, and then back down again, her watery eyes fixed on the dying flames.

"Nothing left to… Oh, Mary, listen to yourself!" Her words were those of an old, bitter woman, not a young and beautiful one, with her whole life still ahead of her. "You could have still accomplished so much: it wouldn't be easy, naturally, but every mistake can be atoned for! I do not believe that… whatever it was that you did… could have condemned you to this life, this… _monstrosity_ that's not worthy being called a 'marriage'! Mary, dearest," he leant forward, not daring to touch her, but needed to get closer to her, "why would you give up on your dreams?"

She raised her eyes and met his, tears finally spilling out and onto her cheeks. "Everything I wanted was lost to me," she whispered.

For a moment he wasn't sure what she'd meant, and thought idly about a comfortable life with a husband who _respected_ her, and about an entirely different life at Downton, had her cousin not sailed on that blasted ship—but then she swallowed, and added in even smaller a voice:

"It is me who is cursed; not you, Matthew; never you."

And there it was: another revelation, quite like the one he'd had in the very same room mere fortnight before; and his heart pounded fast and strong as if it wanted to break free from his chest and throw itself at her feet.

Silence stretched out between them as they sat opposite one another by the fireplace, Mary trying to regain composure, Matthew watching her, loving her more with every passing second, and marvelling at the fact that she could be this cruel to herself.

_He_ did that to her; his cold, hurtful words spoken over Lavinia's tomb had sent her tumbling over a cliff of despair, abandoning any hope for happiness she had.

It was his fault.

And he needed to make it right. To fix it.

To save her from herself.

There were things that had to be said, but now was not the time to say them. Slowly, clenching his jaw as his muscles protested, Matthew lowered himself to the floor, kneeling in front of Mary's chair; she looked up at him, her cheeks wet, and gasped as he reached out, rubbing the tears away.

"Oh, Mary," he breathed, taking her left hand and pressing the softest of kisses to her fingertips. "You are a beautiful, wondrous person." His lips touched the inside of her wrist. "What could I possibly say to make you see that? You deserve to be cherished," another kiss, a fracture of an inch higher, "loved," a flick of a tongue, "and worshipped, for all that you are."

The silk sleeve of her nightgown fell back when he gently pulled her arm towards him, baring more skin to his careful ministrations, and bringing Mary's slender frame to a fuller contact with his body as she embraced his shoulders with her free arm, clinging to him for dear life.

"You mustn't," she whispered against his hair as he slowly lifted her off the armchair, the need in her voice making him mad with desire—mad with love. "Oh, Matthew, _we_ mustn't—"

"Tell me to stop, and I will," he answered in a low voice, his hands caressing her back through the nightgown, his lips finding the skin on her neck, gently kissing the bruise she'd touched mere minutes ago. "Tell me what you need, Mary."

"I—" she stammered, her hands roaming frantically over the skin of his neck, twining in his hair, "Matthew, I—"

Anything that she could have possibly meant to say was cut off by his kiss, and another one, and a third, and they were suddenly tearing at each other's clothing, and coming up for air became an unwelcomed necessity.

He wished to God he could just lift her up and carry her upstairs, lay her down on his bed and—no, not _make __love _to her, this simply wouldn't do: to _worship_ her, praise the beauty of her body and soul, the gentleness of her heart; to fall asleep and wake up next to her, not knowing anything else in the world but her touch, her taste, her smell.

Yet there was still the matter of his weakened legs, and her being married to an abusive, sick bastard, and their being in his mother's house, with the servants that would come in and do the fires in their bedrooms in the morning.

So he walked her upstairs instead of carrying her, and showed her to the guest room instead of his own bed chamber.

And when he slipped out of there an hour or so before dawn, it was possibly the greatest sacrifice he'd ever made in his life.

**TBC…**


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: You, my dears, are wonderful reviewers! Thank you very much indeed for all your kind support!_

_I have just realized that I've never made a disclaimer regarding my owning anything in this story—so here goes: of COURSE I don't own them! If I did, they would've been married long ago, and we would have caught many glimpses of their, mhm, married life onscreen. Ah, well._

_Also, there's one line in this chapter that belongs to Peter Jackson. See if you can find it ;)_

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><p>Molesley woke him up in time for breakfast, begging his forgiveness for not hearing him come back the previous evening. Matthew rubbed on his itchy eyes, still half-asleep, and consider giving the man a raise for doing just that, but eventually decided otherwise.<p>

It wouldn't be wise to make his valet privy to the things that came to pass precisely due to the fact that he remained asleep—even if Matthew wished to tell the world about it, to scream it on the mountains, and… his thoughts started to remind him of a passage from the Bible, which in turn made him think about _biblical_ things, which let straight to—he had to clear his head before he'd let Molesley dress him.

When the valet picked up his discarded shirt, a long, dark hair separated itself from it and fell to the floor. Matthew followed it with his eyes, not being able to see it anymore, but remembering all too vividly what, or rather: who it stood for.

Mary.

The sensation of holding her in his arms, rocking her until she slept with fingers twined in his hair, was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. He had heard about matches made in Heaven, of two people who would feel complete only after they'd found one another—and although a part of his soul had always suspected Mary might be the other half of his proverbial apple, it wasn't until he watched her sleep, vulnerable and trusting in him completely, that he felt sure he'd found what he's been looking for all his life.

And he almost lost it. He could _still_ lose it, if something wasn't done soon to stop sir Richard, to annul her marriage.

He couldn't bear to give her up, not after last night.

In between gentle kisses and soothing caresses he managed to get her to tell him about Pamuk, about that one night that marked her soul forever. He felt pain then, and anger: not at her, but at the man who'd deprived them both of many years they could have spent together, married, with children, no shadows over their heads, no need to look behind and check whether they were followed by an unnamed horror from the past.

Mary wouldn't understand that he didn't care about that, not anymore: the most important thing was that they'd finally crossed the rift that had always been separating them, and reached a point where their souls laid bare. He understood her now, all the sacrifices she'd made, and loved her for that more than he even thought possible.

He let Molesley dress him, choosing his outfit with unusual care, and walked down as slowly as he could, forcing his body not to try and take three steps at the time. Opening the dining room doors, he prepared himself for a quiet meal—and was taken by surprise by the sight of Mary, sitting next to his mother and pouring her a cup of tea.

He was glad to see that she did not adopt the custom of having breakfast in bed, typical for married women of her class: and as he took in the scene before him, he thought with a sudden sadness that this was the way every one of her mornings—_their_ mornings—should be like.

And he wouldn't rest until they did.

"Good morning," he said, desperately trying to keep his voice even, despite all the joy threatening to spill over his lips. Isobel turned to him with a surprised smile.

"You're back!" she exclaimed, leaning up to give him a kiss. "I asked Cousin Mary to stay with us…"

"I know," he interrupted her gently, not daring to look Mary in the eye just yet, "I saw Cousin Mary when I arrived."

Isobel raised her eyebrows. "You _saw_ each other?" she asked, turning to Mary for confirmation.

"I came down looking for you," Mary explained, her cheeks flushing with a dark shade of pink. "I needed something for the fever. Cousin Matthew was kind enough to find me some Aspirin."

She said just the right thing, because Isobel instantly focused on the possible health problems, not the my-son-saw-his-cousin-whom-he-might-still-be-in-love-with-all-alone-last-night issue. "Are you quite alright? You look a little feverish…" She brushed her hand over Mary's forehead and frowned. "I'd rather you stayed with us until tomorrow. You're obviously not well."

"I wouldn't like to overstay my welcome," Mary answered politely, but Matthew could say she only protested for the appearances sake. Isobel waved her off dismissively.

"Nonsense! I'll have Molesley go up to Downton Abbey and give them the message. I need to go to the hospital before lunch, but I'd be happy to keep you company later. And Matthew isn't planning on leaving today, are you?"

Matthew shook his head, trying to fight off a smile. "I'm not going anywhere." He hope the double meaning behind his words wasn't lost to Mary.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked softly, and looked him in the eye for the first time since he came in. She looked tired, as he probably did, but he could see calm and easiness underneath the strictly physical exhaustion, which made him glad.

"Please," he said, dismissing the notion of calling Molesley, and eyeing her up with his eyes as she took his cup. As she passed it back to him, he caught sight of an old bruise upon the inside of her wrist, and his eyes narrowed slightly.

This morning might have been angelically calm, but the storm clouds still hovered over the horizon.

They ate in silence, avoiding each other's eyes—Matthew could tell his mother wanted him to drop some kind of a hint regarding the events of the previous evening, but chose not to do so before talking to Mary again—until Isobel, not known to have a big appetite in the morning, pushed her plate away and stood. "I'll be off now," she said, folding the napkin. "Don't tire her out, Matthew."

"Have a nice day," Mary chimed in with a smile. "And thank you for letting me stay."

"You're very welcome," were Isobel's last words before she let; they could hear her donning on her coat in the hallway, and instructing Molesley to take a message to Lord and Lady Grantham—and then the doors clicked, the house became silent, and they were alone again: or at least they could pretend they were.

"How did you sleep?" he asked over the rim of his teacup.

"Very well, thank you… Although I did prefer the manner in which I fell asleep to the one in which I woke up."

She kept her voice low as she spoke, a quiet murmur that reminded Matthew of a secluded waterfall, a mysterious place that no one's yet discovered—no one but him. "I wish I could have stayed with you," he answered in an equally low voice, reaching out to touch her hand where it rested on the tablecloth.

"I know," she answered, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. "But it wouldn't have been wise." She looked up, her eyes like still-pools of sadness. "I will cherish this memory. You gave me the strength to go on… at least for a while."

It sounded awfully like a goodbye, and Matthew simply wouldn't have it. "Why do you say that? Don't you remember what I said? This was only the beginning—I'm not going to give up on you."

"Perhaps you should. God knows everyone else did. And besides—" she dropped her gaze and bit her lip, "night changes many things. You might have meant it yesterday, but things do tend to look different in the harsh light of the morning."

"No," you protested, shaking his head as he stood up and walked over to her side of the table, dropping to his knees next to her chair, much like he'd done on that evening when he first saw the signs of her being abused by Carlisle. "You must know I meant every word—I _mean_ every word, Mary. I'm going to get you out of that parody of a marriage, come Hell or high water. I'm going to save you."

"How?" she whispered, surrendering herself to him despite her protests, her hands reaching out to grasp at his shoulders. "You are a lawyer, Matthew, you should know better than that—there is no way out of this for me, not if I don't want to disgrace myself completely…"

"There's got to be a way," he interrupted, reaching out to stroke her cheek. "I will not see you go back to him. I will _not_ let him a hand on you again."

She smiled sadly, her eyes glistening. "My knight in the shining armour," she whispered, tracing his cheekbone with her fingertips. "The Fortune doesn't always favour the brave, Matthew. Sometimes it favours the powerful, and the rich. We would be foolish to charge down upon a dragon, armed in nothing but a hoe. Sometimes we must stop playing heroes step back."

"You cannot be serious," he protested, leaning back on his heels. "You cannot possibly _want_ to go back to _him_."

"Of course I don't. I simply do not think I have that much of a choice in it."

Matthew stood up, his elbow brushing Mary's tea saucer in the process; the porcelain tinkling sounded eerie and foreign in his ears. "I will not let him hurt you. Not anymore. We will go to court, and prove what he'd done to you, and you will be free to walk away; you have to be!" He felt the fury buzzing through him in an adrenaline rush and started to pace the room; had sir Richard been here with him, he probably wouldn't have been able to walk out on his own legs by the time Matthew was finished with him.

"It's enough for me to know that you mean it," he heard Mary whisper, and suddenly she was pressed against his back, her hands coming around to touch his chest, holding him to her, anchoring him to the reality and to the feel of her. "But think about it, Matthew—you would need eyewitnesses, or a solid proof, and _time_, to convince any jury of Richard's blame. And even if you had all that, how could you possibly…" She swallowed, suddenly reluctant to finish.

"How could I do what, Mary?" he asked, lifting her hand to his lips and giving each knuckle a gentle kiss. He felt her sigh longingly against his neck, and shivered slightly.

"You couldn't have possibly married me," she said in a dry, bitter tone. "You would be disgraced and disrespected by all, earl or not. This is too great a price to pay."

"No price is too great for you," he answered, turning around in her embrace to face her, his free arm sneaking around her waist and pressing her closer to him. "I have been a fool not to know it before, but now I'm telling you—I will have you as my wife, Lady Mary Crawley," he stressed the last word, refusing to call her by her husband's name, "even if it was the last thing I did in this world."

The corners of Mary's mouth twitched in a sad smile. "Granny would have said such sentimentality was awfully middleclass," she remarked, resting her forehead on his shoulder. He held her closer still, his lips resting on her hair.

"I have known Cousin Violet to be right about many things, but this time I beg to disagree."

"I'm glad you do." She pulled back and looked at him very seriously, her eyes overflowing with emotions.

"Does this mean you would have me?" he held his breath, his heart threatening to tear itself out of his chest. Mary laid one hand over its frantic beating, and nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Only if you promise me to be careful—and if you're sure…"

"I am," he assured her hurriedly, positively drunk with happiness. "I've never been so sure for anything in my life."

"It's going to be painful, for both of us," she warned him, biting her lip. He touched it with his thumb, rubbing it gently.

"It's never easy with you, is it?"

"Never," she admitted, and gave him a real, happy smile; it looked so beautiful on her that he simply had to kiss her.

"Matthew," she breathed against his lips, grasping desperately at his arms, and he angled his head to deepen the kiss; and suddenly the world was limited to the heat and the taste, the smell and the touch as he kissed and kissed her, and his head began to swim…

"What on _Earth_ is the meaning of this?"

They jumped away from each other like children caught stealing cookies from the pantry and stared, gasping, in the faces of Lord and Lady Grantham, clearly having come down first thing in the morning to check on their eldest daughter, and missing Molesley in the process.

_No, not easy at all…_

**TBC…**

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><p><em>AN: …and now, I'm off to Dublin (my first time in Ireland! Yay!) for the rest of the week, and I cannot take my laptop with me, so—we'll have to ask Mary's parents' opinion of the progress of things next week. Yes, I hate myself too, albeit only a little._

_Reviews are love, as always._


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:** I must say that I love all of you for reviewing, favouriting and what not, despite my awful negligence in the topic of updating. I'm so, so sorry! After coming back from Ireland I found myself in a highly disorganized state of mind (mostly due to the fact that I desperately longed to go back there), and took a break from writing ANYTHING for a while; then I finally unblocked and managed to work a little on my original stuff; THEN I went and saw "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy" twice in the span of one week (hooray for Laura Carmichael's scene with the hot and awesome Benedict Cumberbatch!) and was rendered speechless by the sheer beauty of it… and in between, I struggled to work through this chapter, which I found quite tricky, yet fundamental to further development of the whole story. Anyway, enough with lame excuses: I hope you do enjoy this instalment, and promise to bring the next one on much quicker! Thanks for reading!_

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><p>Four pairs of eyes stared at each other in horror.<p>

Silence stretched across the room, thick and suffocating, pressing down on Matthew's throat, clenching around it like an iron fist.

Mary snapped out of it first, taking a small step back and out of his arms, facing her parents with cold, serene gaze that awed and thrilled him.

"Let's not alarm the servants," she suggested calmly, clasping her hands in front of herself. "Would you like some tea?"

Robert's face turned ripe tomato red. "_Tea_? We find you here…" he asphyxiated a little and had to pause to regain his breath, "…betraying your husband in broad daylight, and you offer us _tea_?"

"I found it a very plausible mean to dissolve tension, so—yes."

Matthew all but laughed out loud at Robert's astonished expression, and shook off the remnants of his own shock. "Cousin Cora… Robert… I beg you to sit down, no matter your opinion on the beverage. Mary's right, we should avoid unnecessary commotion."

"I cannot see how it could be achieved," Cora quipped, but sat down on the nearest chair, frowning at her daughter. "And stop acting like your grandmother, Mary! This is not the time!"

At any other time Matthew would have thought the remark hilarious—but coupled with Cora's quiet, venomous tone and Robert disdainful gaze, the words stung him deeply, even though they weren't aimed directly at him. He looked at Mary to see how she was holding up, but she seemed unmoved by her mother's accusing voice, patiently waiting for both her parents to regain composure.

Obviously, they did not succeed.

"What were you _thinking_?" Robert hissed at Mary, his face still bearing the most unnatural colour. "How could you be so… _ungrateful_?"

Matthew imagined many an adjective leaving Robert's mouth after seeing Mary kissing a man who was not her husband. None of said adjectives was particularly nice.

None was, however, as bad as the one he actually used.

"Is that what you think she is?" he asked in a low voice, bordering on a growl. "Ungrateful? Do you actually mean to say that she should be grateful to Carlisle? And for _what_ exactly, may I ask?"

"For starters," Robert spat, his lips actually turning purple, "for stepping up, admitting his own feelings and trying to make her happy by _marrying__her_, rather than lurking around and taking advantage of her in such a contemptible way!"

Mary gasped and sat down heavily, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, her shoulders shaking slightly. Matthew raised his chin, staring defiantly into Robert's eyes as he reached out and gently placed one hand at the base of Mary's neck. She shivered at the touch, but didn't move away.

"You are right to think my behaviour appalling," he turned to face Robert, his words carefully measured. "By all means, this shouldn't be happening." He left Mary stiffen at these words, and squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "No, my darling, let me explain it properly. I should have done something about my… feelings towards your daughter before she married. I chose succumbing to my grief, and lost my chance to do so. I will forever regret doing so.

"That does not mean, however, that I will pretend to ignore the obvious signs pointing to the fact that the woman I love is being mistreated by the man she married. Neither shall I remain silent when you call her ungrateful to the man who did _this_to her."

As he spoke the last words, his hand sneaked over to Mary's arm, gently yet firmly taking hold of it, and turning it upwards for Robert and Cora to see. The bruising on the inside of the wrist was still visible, and the two of them could not ignore it, once it's been pointed out so clearly. Cora gasped and pressed a hand to her heart, her face ashen white. Robert fell back a step, clearly taken aback by the sight. "Mary…" he said, his voice much quieter than a moment ago, yet still vibrating with emotion, "what _happened_ to you?"

"Did Richard…" Cora started, but paused, obviously too afraid to voice her own thoughts. "Why would he _do_ such a thing?"

Mary's eyes pleaded for Matthew not to reveal anything beyond the absolutely necessary minimum, and he felt like he owed her that. "The most important question is not the 'why', Cousin Cora," he interrupted, moving his hand to gently grasp Mary's. "What we should be thinking about right now is _how_ to get Mary out of this situation—since we have already established that this is what she wants. Or am I wrong?" he turned to Mary for reaffirmation. She gave him a sad smile.

"The simplest answer would be: no, you're not," she said, and turned to face her parents. "Yet I believe this is not something that could be resolved in a simple way."

Robert threaded shaky fingers through his hair, and finally sat down. "We shall need to talk more about the 'why', Matthew," he said pointedly, and focused his attention entirely upon his daughter. "Mary, why ever haven't you told us?"

Mary's bottom lip quivered, and Matthew realized she wouldn't possibly be able to handle this conversation right then and there. "You might also ask yourselves why _you_ hadn't noticed anything in the first place: but now is not the time to discuss it," he remarked dryly. "Mary should rest; mother would never forgive me if we wore her out."

"Yes," Robert breathed, still looking slightly stunned by the turn of events. "When would be ready to go home, darling? We'll take you to Downton by car."

"Actually, I'd rather stay here if you don't mind."

Matthew glanced down at Mary, happy to hear her words, but somewhat surprised by the calm manner in which they were spoken. Mary gave him a soft, warm smile, and continued, seemingly unmoved by her mother's gasp of protest, "You would have to believe me when I say nothing that could possibly compromise me will come to pass. I feel quite safe under Cousin Isobel's supervision."

"Mary, you do realize this is quite an—extraordinary situation…"

"Yes, Mama, I do. I never fail to remember it."

"How about I leave you here with the car, my dear," Robert cut in before Cora could protest some more, "and Matthew walks me back to the house? I believe certain matters need to be discussed, and it'd be better if we do it separately. Would that ease your anxiety?"

To which Cousin Cora said yes, both to Matthew's relief (for it meant Mary would stay at Crawley House at least for another twenty-four hours), and torment (for he now had to face a heart-to-heart with Mary's father, and not in a way he'd imagined himself do so).

Either way, it had to be done.

* * *

><p>The day seemed awfully sunny and warm for having such a conversation.<p>

Robert stayed quiet for most of the time, and for a moment Matthew thought that perhaps they wouldn't have the talk anyway, but finally, when the big house came into view, the earl of Grantham stopped in the middle of the path, and addressed his heir with a short, yet meaningful phrase:

"So… you love her."

"I do. I really do."

"And you'd have her divorce Richard, and marry you?"

"I would. I will not let her stay married to that… that _bastard_." Not having Mary around for this conversation meant that he could at least release some steam into words. He still would have preferred to deal with her husband in more direct a manner.

Robert looked like he might have been having similar thoughts regarding his son-in-law. "What he does to her… is it… does it concern… oh, Heavens, I can't even say that!"

Matthew nodded gravely. "She's your daughter. I quite understand what it must mean to you—and if you'd rather not know the answer…"

"Do _you_?"

"I… yes. She told me some of it—I figured out the rest."

"So it is true. What I cannot bear thinking about, that… that… _thing_ does to her? To my little Mary?"

"And you failed to notice the signs, even though they were right there for you to see. And I do not mean to be disrespectful, but…"

"…but you are mad at us for not having seen it before. Correct?"

"Yes. I suppose so."

"When did you see it?"

"When she dropped her knife, that first evening after they came back. She showed me—her bruised ankle, a shadow on her neck. It was like calling out for help."

"I still cannot even begin to understand, though… how could she allow him do such horrible things to her? Surely Mary has enough self-esteem to know better?"

This was it. The part he dreaded the most. For how _do__you_ tell a man that you respect, the father of the woman you're planning to marry, that you know his daughter suffered the worst type of abuse because of his supposed love affair?

Carefully, that is how. "Sir Richard got hold of some information that could… endanger your family. He had to bargain with his opponents to keep it secret, and eventually blamed Mary for his losses. She… allowed him to do what he did, in hope to save you all the shame and abomination." He swallowed, and went on, feverishly, "I know you all seem to think Mary is a cold and selfish person, but in fact, she's quite the opposite. She always thinks of everyone else before herself. She loves you with all her heart, and could never see—"

"Matthew, I do know my own daughter," the older man interrupted, clearly unnerved by the news. "And although I do understand the need to protect us—why in God's name haven't she told us? What could it possibly be that those wretched people found on the family? Surely it could have been worked out without Mary suffering the way she did? Was it about the money?"

"Heavens, no."

"Then _what_?"

"They… traced a payment. From your personal account. And questioned the identity of its receiver."

Robert frowned. "You've just told me it had nothing to do—"

"…as I said, the payment was made by you personally. The receiving party was Ripon Grammar School; more specifically: a boy named Freddie, whose mother was known to have recently quit a job at your house."

The words stopped Robert in his tracks, his face a picture of sheer horror. "They found out about _that_? And they—they thought that I… That Jane and I had—"

"Robert," Matthew chimed in, briefly touching the other man's shoulder, "I do not mean to ask you about that matter; I want neither confirmation nor denial from you: but you must understand that, was there but a hint of truth in it, those people would have torn your family to pieces, like the vultures they are."

"And they would have been right to punish me."

Matthew blinked, taken aback by all possible implications of that sentence. "You don't mean to say that the boy is actually your…?"

"Oh, no, of course not. But had they dug deep enough, they might have found… Oh, Lord, what have I done?"

Matthew felt completely paralyzed, unable to move a muscle, to turn and walk away, even if at that moment he wanted nothing more than to do so.

Robert brushed a hand across his face, his eyes tired and swollen. "I did think I… perhaps not 'fell in love' with her, but certainly had feelings… It was all around the time when Cora became sick, and I hated myself in afterthought, but either way… I believe it's called a 'middle-age crisis'. My mother would probably say it was very middle-class of me to have it, but I did—and now my daughter has to pay for it. Good God, how could I possibly be so stupid!"

"It's only human to err," Matthew offered with yet another awkward pat on Robert's shoulder, hoping to stir his thoughts away from the subject he himself found highly troubling. "We should now concentrate of finding a solution to this problem—and we need to do it fast. I need you with me, Robert."

"Yes," Lord Grantham whispered, and shook his head, as if trying to clear it of the memories and snap out of his reverie. "You are right, of course. Mary is what matters the most right now. Matthew," he raised hopeful eyes to his heir, "is there anything we can do? You're the man of the law, surely you understand—"

"—how difficult it would be for Mary to get a divorce before having been married to sir Richard for two years, and without having him ruin her, or your whole family, for the matter? Yes, I am aware of everything we are up against. Had I been a barrister myself, I never would've taken up such a case. It would be madness to think one could possibly win it."

"Then… there is no hope?"

Matthew looked at the man in front of him—a proud, honourable man, whose one foolish mistake put his whole family's happiness at stake. He thought of Mary: how she felt when he held her last night; how she kissed him after he sort of proposed to her again, and she sort of accepted him; how her back stiffened mere minutes later when she thought he'd meant to tell her father that he believed their brief liaison a mistake.

How broken she'd looked as she sat in front of the fireplace at Crawley House, and opened her heart before him.

It was too much. It was _everything_.

And he felt like he could do absolutely _anything_, as long as he had her love.

"Actually," he spoke after a long moment, licking his lips as he quirked his brow and gave Robert a grimace that could have been a beginning of a smile, "I may have a plan. And it might just work."

**TBC…**


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N:** I have this big, difficult chapter ahead of me, in which Matthew's devious plan will be executed, and I'd have to concentrate on actions rather than emotions, so I decided to write this small piece of an interlude, and channel some of my fangirly needs regarding… well, you'll figure it out._

_I kind of love dialogue-only fics. Let's see if I'm capable of writing one…_

_(And I still love you all. Your reviews are so… oh my, you write such WONDERFUL stories, and you still want to hang around and read my deranged ramblings! I'm honoured, I really am. Thank you!)_

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><p>"Would you hate me if I told you I didn't like that plan of yours?"<p>

"On the contrary. I'm not sure what I'd do if you told me you _liked_ it."

"Oh. No worries, then."

"You know that if there was another way, I'd never ask you to—"

"I know. And don't worry, I'll get through it. As long as you're with me."

"Always."

* * *

><p>"Matthew?"<p>

"Hmm?"

"When you talked to Papa… how much did you tell him?"

"Only what concerned him directly. This is, after all, what would have brought the most terrible damage to him, and to your mother."

"But this isn't the truth. At least not the whole truth."

"It is enough for now. As for the rest… we'll see what happens. Perhaps no one would need to be told. You've suffered more than your share because of that."

"Thank you, I… thank you, Matthew…"

* * *

><p>"…Mary?"<p>

"Y-yes?"

"I'd better go back to my own room now. This isn't right."

"Are you concerned about what I told Mama? That nothing would happen while I stayed here that might inflict further damage to my honour?"

"Wouldn't it be strange of me if I wasn't?"

"Well, if it makes you feel better—I'm not."

"And _that_ is what I'm concerned about."

"You stayed with me last night."

"But you must agree that last night was… well, it was less _this_."

"Is _this_ a bad thing?"

"It is tonight."

"Oh, Matthew…"

"Don't… do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't say my name that way. I may try to do the right thing, but I'm by no means—_Mary!_"

"You were saying…?"

"You are a wicked, wicked woman, Mary Crawley."

"You realize this is not my official name right now, don't you?"

"But it will be, if I have anything to say about it."

"…I love you."

"Not as much as I love you."

"Show me."

"Always so demanding…"

* * *

><p>"Will you go to London before we do, or can you wait?"<p>

"I'm not sure. If he writes for me to come, I'd have to go—but I don't suppose he misses me all that much."

"He's a fool, then. I couldn't imagine not seeing you every day, all the time."

"You're not really _seeing_ me now, either."

"I have other senses to work with… is that cinnamon?"

"Mama lent me some of her shampoo. Apparently O'Brien has some secret recipe."

"We need to make her share it with Anna. I'm assuming you'd like to keep Anna when we… Mary, darling, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, really… it's just that I feel like everything that happened since summer had been a bad dream, and I'm finally waking up—and then I remember that I have to go back into the nightmare, and…"

"Hush, love, don't think about it now. I promise you I'll do everything I can to make the dream end."

"Will you kiss the princess, and wake her up?"

"I feel like I've already done that…"

"That was an hour ago. And I can barely remember… oh, _Matthew_!"

"Your memory's slowly coming back to you, I think."

"Barely… there…"

"Here?..."

"You do learn fast."

"I'm still at the beginning. I'll save most of it for later."

"Promise?"

"I have lots of ideas for killing time between now and that moment when I plan to discover _everything_ about you."

"Do tell me… or better yet…"

"Say no more."

* * *

><p>"What time is it?"<p>

"Still quite early. I'd better go before they come in to start the fire."

"Matthew? I… thank you. It was... I never thought…"

"It will always be like that. Or better. I told you: you deserve it, all of it."

"I'm going to miss you. When I wake up again. And I probably should go home today, Mama won't wait forever before making another scene."

"Then I'll stop by after work. We could have tea… if you'd like that."

"Tea will have to do."

"I thought you liked tea?"

"Not at all times."

"Mary, what did I tell you about _this_ voice?"

* * *

><p>"That's it, I'm really leaving now..."<p>

"Of course you are."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC…<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

_London, September 27, 1919_

There was a knock on the door, and a moment later Andrew Morrigan's curly head found its way to Matthew's temporary lodging. "Are you decent?"

"Come in, you rascal," Matthew smiled, giving his old friend a lopsided grin. "Thank you, Molesley, that would be all."

Andrew watched the valet leave, his head cocked playfully to the side. "You became quite good at that," he remarked sourly, but without any real venom in his voice. "Think I should come and take a few lessons from you, if I'm ever to visit Taffy and her hubby dearest."

"Oh, she decided to take you off the list of undesirable guests after all? Stupid girl; I need to have a word with her."

"Are you trying to offend me? It's not working, you know."

"Thought as much," Matthew gave his friend an exaggerated eye roll, before fixing him with a dead-on serious look. "I'm really grateful, Andrew."

"Forget it," the younger man waved his hand dismissively. "That's what friends are for. Besides, I kind of hope there'd be something in the store for me as well—seeing how little Taffy got herself fixed made me quite a dowry hunter myself."

"As if anyone could ever believed that," Matthew smirked. "I'm sure Cousin Edith is going to appreciate your company, though."

He met Andrew Morrigan in law school, and grew quite fond of his easy-goingness and biting sense of humour. When Robert came to him, complaining on the lack of a suitable ball partner for Edith (somehow the family was disinclined to accept any of Carlisle's friends who'd offered to escort her), Matthew instantly came up with Andrew's candidacy, knowing that his friend, though by no means a blue blood, was rather suitably connected, with a considerable fortune and a younger sister who'd recently married an heir to one of the Herefordshire peers.

The fact that Andrew was an active attorney with vast experience in family law, including a couple of domestic violence incidences, made up for a significant added value.

"If only I can be of help or make a riot—preferably both—count me in, you old horse. How much time do we have?"

Matthew checked his watch, one of the very few in the house currently showing the right time. "About thirty minutes." His leg twitched, and he bit his lip to try and calm his nerves.

"Get a grip, Crawley. You're vibrating."

"Easy for you to say."

"Quite. I mean it, though—you have it all worked out. Everything's going to be fine. _She__'__s_ going to be fine."

"I hope to God you're right. If that bastard manages to hurt her…" Another knock on the door interrupted him. "Who is it?"

"It's me, Mr. Crawley," Carson said, opening the door a fracture. Matthew quickly ushered the old butler in. "I believe the cogs are in motion, sir."

"Already?" Matthew paled visibly, and checked his watch again. "What about the other guests?"

"I believe at least four couples are waiting in the drawing room, sir."

Andrew jumped off the bed and clapped his hands in merriment. "Excellent! Shall we go and put some sticks into the machinery?"

Matthew nodded, his heart clenched by an invisible anvil. "We'd better."

* * *

><p>It came to him on that first night he'd spent with Mary—she told him, between sobs and tears, of some of the ways in which Richard would make her suffer, the most revolting one being his taking advantage of her directly before this or that social event they were supposed to take part in together. "It's as if he's taking some additional satisfaction from knowing that I can barely hide the pain, but have to appear calm and composed in front of strangers," she whispered into Matthew's neck, her hands gripping at his shirt. He rubbed her back soothingly, kissed her brow: and was suddenly struck with a realization that Carlisle had probably hurt her before the dinner at Downton, and would do it again on the day of the press ball…<p>

From there, it was quite easy to conceive a counter-plan. Especially after he'd talked to Carson and Anna when he walked Robert back to Downton the following day.

* * *

><p>"<em>We would need time," Matthew groaned as he combed through his hair in silent desperation. "It would do us no good if the only witnesses were related to Mary, and how on Earth he could possibly be tricked into baring his nature in front of outsiders, I cannot fathom…"<em>

_A polite cough from Carson interrupted his tirade. "I apologize for speaking unasked, m'lord, but given the date of the ball, the solution to this problem might be simpler than you think…"_

_And he told them of his impressions regarding sir Richard's butler, and the woman he'd employed as Lady Mary's maid—and suddenly the pieces of the puzzle started to fit in together._

* * *

><p>"…and <em>then <em>I asked him, 'Very well, but how on Earth do you plan to accomplish it without a gun?'"

Edith laughed merrily at yet another anecdote Andrew related to her; they've been downstairs for less than twenty minutes, and Matthew could already see sparks flying between his cousin and his friend. He wondered whether Andrew was simply trying to appear interested to make their plan more believable, and hoped that he wasn't—for Edith's sake as much as Andrew's.

This was not the time to dwell on that topic, though. Matthew stood up from his chair in one swift motion, his lips pulled into a grimace of impatience. His friend's eyes found his, and an almost imperceptible nods were exchanged.

Time to play.

"Is this a London thing?" he asked with a sneer, turning to sir Richard's guests, huddling on the other side of the room and ostensibly giving the Crawleys a cold shoulder. "To have problems with recognizing the time, and thus being late for your own party?"

Nobody seemed eager to grace him with an answer; the women pursed their lips and sipped on their sherries, while the men simply ignored him. Obviously they didn't consider him a worthy partner in this conversation.

Cousin Violet, unaware as it was of the whole plan and its details, came to Matthew's aid simply by being herself. "I must say, this… _summer__time_ scheme is most vexing, but surely a man of your experience should have managed to grasp the idea by now, Dounty?" she addressed sir Richard's butler, an elderly, stout man with drooping cheeks, who stood by the door and tried to look as unassuming as possible. Even from his place across the room Matthew could see the drops of sweat on his balding forehead.

Dounty had, in fact, thought he understood the intricacies of the new system, demanding that the time was forwarded or reversed in twenty minute periods through March and September, in order to synchronize with the Daylight Saving Time used throughout the continent. He'd done it three times already, since the Summer Time Act had been passed in 1916, always looking up to his master for approval and confirmation of the adjustments. However, since his former employer (a country nobleman leading a quiet and solitary life) passed away last spring, and Dounty came to work for sir Richard Carlisle mere months before the press ball, it would have been unwise to prove himself unable to follow such simple requirements…

Therefore, instead of going to sir Richard for advice, or blindly following the instructions laid down in the papers, Dounty turned to a man he deemed most apt and competent in his own work group—Mr. Carson, the butler of Downton Abbey.

It was his advice that he took this very morning, when he reversed all the clocks in the house (including sir Richard's pocket watch) by one hour. The adjustment took place before anyone in the house woke up, and the smoothness with which it went, accomplished within no longer than ten minutes, made Dounty feel quite proud of himself.

Of course, he had been a little suspicious when the clock on a nearby church tower struck six instead of the expected five—but Mr. Carson, who had kindly accompanied him, explained that the clergy wouldn't get up this early only to reverse the clock hands, and that they would most probably take care of that later. Everybody already knew about the time change, so why bother with climbing up a church tower before dawn?

It was a very sound argument, and as the city woke up and its noises shut down the sound of church bells, Dounty readily forgot about his initial doubts.

That is—until the guests started to arrive, claiming it was already eight, and so the dinner was supposed to start in less than an hour, although according to the clock in the hall it was still seven.

Dounty all but panicked, and ran over to find Mr. Carson as soon as he accommodated the guests: and Lady Mary's family, who had also come down immaculately dressed as if it wasn't their own butler that caused the whole turmoil. Said butler, confronted with Dounty's reproaches, apologized profoundly and claimed that he'd mistaken the date, and that the time change wasn't due until next Wednesday, October 1. Of course, the change should be happening of a week-end, but since the government favours the general time frame rather than the days of the week…, etc., etc. He'd kindly offered to go up himself and fetch Dounty's master, thereby assuring that the man's initial anger wouldn't be directed upon his fairly new butler.

Now, almost half an hour later, Carson still hadn't come back, sir Richard and Lady Mary were absent, the guests and the family were growing more and more impatient by the minute, and Dounty himself was on a verge of a stroke.

Perhaps it really would have been better if he simply retired this last summer, instead of pursuing another position, he thought remorsefully for what felt like the thousandth time that day. At sixty-nine, he was clearly too old for this job…

"I know!" somebody shouted, and Dounty recognized the voice of the young dandy, apparently a friend of Mr. Crawley's. "Let's go and fetch your sister, shall we? Perhaps she doesn't know about all this—we might as well earn us some points with the lady of the house!"

The playful and seemingly innocent remark had been directed at Lady Edith, who—charmed by Andrew at it was—stood up and readily agreed to the plan. The Dowager Countess tried to stop the two conspirators as they hastily left the room, chuckling and giggling as they went, but Lady Grantham waved her off, her pale face impassive. "Let them go. I wouldn't dare to invade sir Richard's privacy, but Mary is probably just preening herself the way she usually does, and she's lost the track of time. I'm sure they'll all be down in a minute."

She might have been right, Dounty said—after all, Miss Parker, the maid sir Richard hired for his new wife, seemed to be far more interested in spying on her new mistress than in doing her job properly, so…

The train of the old butler's thoughts was violently interrupted, as Lady Edith high, terror-stricken cry cut through the air.

All conversations ceased momentarily. The men jumped to their feet, the women gaped at one another in horror.

Something was thrown down onto the floor upstairs, falling with a dull thud. Lady Edith screamed again, but this time her cry was one of pain and anguish. An unmistakeable sound of cracking wood could be heard, as well as footsteps running down the first floor corridor.

Lord Grantham, Mr. Crawley and two of sir Richard's male guests started off towards the stairs. The ladies exchanged worried looks, and Dounty worried that Lady Grantham might faint: she was white as a sheet, her hands restlessly wringing a silk handkerchief.

Everybody held their breath, trying to catch anything from the unexpected disturbance upstairs.

There were some angry shouts, a slap, a heated conversation, doors slamming—then, for some long minutes, complete silence. Dounty was at a loss. Should he go upstairs, leaving the guests unattended, and check on his master, or rather…

His musings ended shortly, as the earl of Grantham re-entered the room, his features contorted into an expression of cold fury.

"Dounty, fetch a doctor for Lady Mary at once," he commanded in a dry, sour tone. "And have Carson send our footman to my attorney—he'll know the address. Tell him I want the man to come here tonight, and I don't care about any other place he'd have to be. It's a matter of the utmost urgency. Go!"

The old butler rushed towards the door, where he almost bumped into the young dandy, Mr. Morrigan, now sporting a bloody lip and a crooked smile. Lady Edith held onto the man's arm as if he was her lifebuoy, her eyes glistening with affection.

"Well, chaps," Mr. Morrigan said to the rest of sir Richard's guests, wiping some blood off his mouth with the tip of his thumb, "I'm guessing the party's over. But don't worry—I'm sure it'll make the papers!..."

* * *

><p><em>THE SCANDALOUS BARON! 'THE DIVORCE IS IMMINENT,' SAYS LORD GRANTHAM'S ATTORNEY<em>

_The guests arriving at the Annual Press Ball, hosted this year in the newly acquired house of sir Richard Carlisle, had been spared the sight of their host leaving his own residence in handcuffs only thanks to sir Richard's father-in-law, Lord Grantham's, kind and forgiving nature._

_Eyewitnesses' account has it that on the day of the ball, shortly before the celebrations were due to begin, sir Richard assaulted his newly married wife, Lady Mary Crawley Carlisle, in the most brutal manner imaginable. When his repugnant behaviour had been discovered by a Mr. Andrew Morrigan, a young and promising attorney working at the Bow Street Magistrates' Court, and Lady Edith Crawley, the offender tried to flee, attacking Mr. Morrigan in an attempt to buy himself some time. Fortunately, he was intercepted by a group of gentlemen already gathered at the house in hope to take part in the festivities. Instead of dancing and dining, they were served violence and brutality—a combination one does not expect to find at such an occasion._

_The medical expertise revealed that the incident was not a solitary one; in fact, the man known among his opponents as the Bloody Baron of the Press, deserves no better name when his married life is concerned._

_Since the discovery of sir Richard's vile conduct, several attorneys, including the valiant Mr. Morrigan, offered their services to Lord Grantham and his eldest daughter. 'The atrocious act we have witnessed gives us enough ground to appeal for an extraordinary bill, which would provide Lady Mary with an opportunity to divorce her husband before the period of their marriage demanded by law (that is, two years) is completed,' says Mr. F.L. Murray, Lord Grantham's acting attorney._

_The initial hearing of the case has been scheduled for Monday next, October 6…_

**TBC…**

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** Alright, so I DID take some liberties here—seeing that the initial idea behind British Daylight Saving Time was to advance (or reverse) the clocks by 20 minutes in a span of several weeks in spring and fall, rather than do it the way we all employ now, and THEN changed to the 'regular' scheme, I'd imagined it must have been quite a puzzler for everyone at the time… especially since it has been introduced in 1916, that is: during the War, when everything was pretty much upside-down. Plus, it worked very well with the rest of the plan. I hope you didn't hate it TOO much._

_Anyway, I expect that next chapter will be the last: and I promise it'll be better than this one! Thanks for all the reviews, you are too kind and generous! So much love for this fandom!…_


	9. Chapter 9

_July 31, 1920_

The sound of a motor running pulled him out of his reverie. Walking across the room to the window, he looked down onto the driveway, and smiled at the sight of the person behind the wheel.

He heard footsteps behind him, and smiled at the sound of her voice. "Who was that?"

"Edith. I'm guessing she's gone down to the station."

"Is Andrew coming on the afternoon train?"

"That's what he told me."

She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest, her chin coming to rest on his left shoulder. "I'm so happy for them. You make quite a matchmaker, my dear."

"Not for long now. You know it's bad luck to keep the matchmaking up after one's been married."

"And we do not need any more bad luck, do we?"

"We most certainly don't," he answered, turning around to embrace the woman who was going to be wed to him in less than twenty-four hours. He reached up and traced the lines around her eyes with his fingertips, kissed her brow, smoothed his other hand across her back, still able to feel every bone in her ribcage through the material, although she'd regained some weight since the divorce finally came through three months before.

She smiled at him, her eyes shining with quiet happiness, and stood on tiptoe to brush her lips against his. "I'm coming back from the south wing," she said, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. "I think it all turned out quite nicely."

"I'm sure it did, since you were in charge of redecorating. Did I ever tell you how I admire your bravery? You stood up to both your mother and mine, after all."

"Well, at least I had Granny on my side."

"That's true. Cousin Violet turned out to be a valuable ally in all this."

"She did. She likes you quite a lot, you know. Although I'm not sure if she's forgiven you for leaving her in the dark regarding your 'rescue plan'."

"I was afraid she might call the cavalry in if I did." He sighed and held her closer, his lips ghosting over her hair. "Though when I think about it now, it might have been just the thing to do."

He rarely allowed himself to go back to that night, to the sight of Mary curled up on the floor, the skirt of her dress torn to shreds, tears running down her face; Andrew standing over sir Richard whom he'd finally managed to knock down, massaging the knuckles of his right hand, blood trickling down this chin; Edith, pale faced and hyperventilating, pressed against the wall just inside Mary's room… He knew the plan had worked, that they now had witnesses who'd provide unquestionable testimonies—but he felt the price paid for that was much too high.

He had told her numerous times how sorry he was for making her go through all that—and he would have said it once more, if it wasn't for a condition she'd set some time ago. 'I don't want to listen to it anymore,' she'd said on one spring evening, when he was walking her home from a village fair. 'It's over, it's gone, and it will never happen again. You need to be punished for bringing it up over and over. From now on, every time you tell me that you're sorry for what happened, you need to kiss me, and properly too, Matthew Crawley,' she'd said and kissed him herself, quite properly indeed—and from that day on he'd told her that he was sorry many a time, for the sole purpose of claiming her lips.

But he wouldn't say it now, not when mere hours separated them from the moment they would finally be joined in matrimony—for he wasn't sure a kiss would suffice, and after having waited so long for this, for _her_, he didn't want to spoil everything on the last stretch.

"Tell me about the dress," he pleaded, hoping it would turn their thoughts away from the past. "What colour is it again?"

"Bisque. Honestly, you should be able to remember something that simple."

"I'm but a humble man, Mary. I'm not even sure I know what bisque _looks__ like_."

"It's similar to champagne, but lighter," Sybil put in, walking into the library and heading over to the settee. "Is it too early for tea? I think there's a bottomless hole inside me."

"It's called _a __baby_," Mary answered warmly, and pulled the bell rope. "I'll have Mrs. Hughes bring you something. She's positively thrilled to have you back, all of you." She sat down next to her youngest sister, and tentatively brushed her fingers across her stomach. "She hopes you'll stay a little longer after the wedding, if Bran… _Tom_ can spare some more time."

"Granny does too. She told me that if the child was born in Downton, it would make him less Irish."

"I'm telling you, we're having a girl, and she will probably have Irish red hair," her husband put in, coming through the door with a sandwich-laden tray in his hands. "I was downstairs when you called—Mrs. Patmore figured it'd be you, since it's been almost two hours since luncheon."

"You're all horrible… and right," Sybil pouted, reaching for the food. Tom gave her a radiant smile, his newly acquired horn-rimmed glasses catching the sunlight. Matthew observed the scene quietly from his place by the window, his hands stuck deep into his pockets. He grew quite fond of Sybil's rebellious husband, now a highly regarded journalist, looking quite serious and respectable in his new suit, the glasses and a slightly longer hair. It would be nice to have him as a brother-in-law, he thought.

_Not much longer now. Keep it together, Crawley; you've waited this long, you can get through another day._

Mary looked up at him, her eyes glazed over with an emotion she reserved only from him—a perfect mixture of love, longing, desire and affection—and although the comfort was minimal, he felt better knowing he wasn't the only impatient person in the room.

* * *

><p>Twenty-seven hours later, he was almost vibrating.<p>

He blamed the bisque dress, of course.

The cut was simple, with a flare skirt, a fitting bodice, and thin straps running across Mary's perfectly milky shoulders (no sign of any bruises whatsoever) under the overlay of the sheerest silk.

There was no veil, only two perfect tea rosebuds behind Mary's left ear, a small bouquet of the same flowers laced with an eggshell ribbon, and very little jewellery: a string of blue pearls and matching stud earrings—a Christmas present from Cora—and the ring he'd given her: one perfectly cut diamond, surrounded by three miniature pearls of the same shade.

'_Pearls symbolize tears,' he'd told her on that warm spring evening, merely hours after the divorce had been announced, minutes after he kneeled before her and once again asked if she was sure, if she really wanted this, wanted him: and seconds after their lips parted. 'And you must get used to these, because I never want to see you cry again.'_

_Well, she did cry a little when he slipped the ring on her finger, but so did he, so they agreed it wouldn't count._

And her eyes were full of tears as she walked towards him through the great hall of Downton, but, first, she smiled at him in the most captivating way, and second, so were the eyes of Cora, and Violet, and his mother, and possibly Robert, so Matthew decided to let her have that one.

When they were announced man and wife, he did everything he could to keep their kiss chaste and quick, but from the way Andrew whistled and cheered he gathered it didn't _quite _work out: all because of the way she looked in that dress, of course, perfect and sensual and the most beautiful thing he'd even seen.

The tension grew. He could see it in Mary's eyes too, and his whole skin tingled in anticipation.

_That_ was almost five hours ago.

There was no real reception, no journey to go on and no new house to head off to—there were still journalists trying to hunt down the infamous divorcee, which had helped them to come to the decision of taking up residence in Downton, and least for a time, and skipping the honeymoon trip—which meant that everybody gathered in the drawing room, sipping on their cocktails and talking leisurely, nobody showing signs of wanting to retire. Matthew left Mary with Rosamund and Cora, and crossed the room to help himself to some water—he really didn't need the alcohol to feel dizzy on that particular evening, and if he didn't cool himself down…

"I have a feeling you'd rather be elsewhere," Andrew said, leaning against the cocktail cabinet with a smug expression on his face. Matthew rolled his eyes and groaned.

"Never thought I'd hate my own wedding reception, after waiting so long to be married to the love of my life," he quipped dryly, and swallowed the contents of his glass in one large gulp. Andrew smirked and sipped on his brandy.

"How much would you like me if I helped you out of this highly unpleasant situation?..."

* * *

><p>"Excuse me, everyone! Can I have your attention, please? Edith and I have something to tell you…"<p>

* * *

><p>"I really think we should have stayed there for ten more minutes and congratulate them properly…"<p>

"Would you rather go back down?"

"Heavens, no!..."

* * *

><p>The gossamer silk fell off her body with a whisper-like rustle; he followed it with his mouth, kissing every inch of her skin he could reach. She arched against him, her fingers entwined in his hair, pulling him closer as he tasted her—the musk, the lilacs, the whole pallet of Eastern spices in her skin.<p>

She pushed at his shoulders and he paused, unsure whether he'd hurt her or done something wrong, but she simply rolled them over, rising above him like a dream, a princess, a goddess.

"Andromeda," he whispered, and sat up to pull the pins out of her hair, letting it tumble down her shoulders like a mantle of hot chocolate.

"Perseus," she answered, throwing his cufflinks across the room and stripping him off his shirt, her hands roaming across his heated skin. "You saved me, and I'm yours."

"Mine," he repeated, capturing her lips in a kiss that consumed them both, and led to things they could never possibly talk about with anyone else, for they were too unreal, too magical and too beautiful to explain to people other than themselves.

* * *

><p>"I have loved you since I first saw you."<p>

"You know _I_ didn't…"

"But I grew on you, didn't I?"

"Is that a trick question?..."

"Mary Crawley, what did I tell you about being wicked, and talking to me in _that_ tone?"

"I can't remember. Care to remind me?"

So he did.

* * *

><p>They missed breakfast on the following day.<p>

And lunch.

Fortunately, Anna brought them a tray, and tactfully left it _outside_ the door.

**Fin**

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** That's a wrap! Thank you SO MUCH to everybody who reviewed and favourited this story—you made me a very happy writer! I apologize for all the mistakes I've made—I know I'm no native speaker, but I'm learning… I hope my Muse will let me come back and write some more M/M fiction—for the time being, I've started a blog in which I plan to ramble on regarding some of my ideas, and share my general thoughts on all things I'm fangirling right now—if you have the time, please drop by to theotherfay(dot)blogspot(dot)com, I'd love to hear from you!_

_Love,  
>Lena<em>


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